


Watermelon

by bauer



Series: Candy [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Pregnancy, Aphrodisiacs, Cum Inflation, M/M, Oviposition, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7275775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zach has always had a sweet tooth, and Dylan has always been willing to abide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watermelon

**Author's Note:**

> Two songs are utilized in this fic: "Drunk in Love" by Queen Bey and "Sex and Candy" by Marcy Playground.
> 
> Full warning/summary at the bottom. Yell at me if I made an embarrassing typo or forgot a tag (also, if anyone knows how to put emoji in fic without AO3 deleting it and everything after, pls help the technologically challenged). Enjoy!

Dylan is already most of the way to Ann Arbor before he thinks to text Zach. Finishing up with camp and physical exams had been a bit of a blur, and he’d rushed out before even thinking of what Zach might be up to. Dylan doesn’t _think_ Zach should be busy, if he’s remembering his schedule right. At worst, he’s interrupting a nap, but he isn’t going to feel too bad about that.

He fiddles for a moment, getting himself onto a straight away before sending out **Dude I hope your in your room rn bc I’m going to be in ten min and buddy do I have something to show you** before throwing his phone back into his cupholders. He steps on the gas a little heavier than he probably should and cranks up the volume, _“We be all night—”_

There’s a text from Zach waiting for him by the time he’s parked (which, sweet, Dylan doesn't even have to wake him up) that reads **??? Didn’t you just have a thing? Are you seriously driving here from Detroit right now?**  

Dylan replies with a picture of the outside of Dewey House and a **Love you** (Face Throwing A Kiss )(Face Throwing A Kiss )(Face Throwing A Kiss ). The front door’s unlocked and he doesn’t bother to knock. The couple guys in the living room barely respond to his intrusion, but it’s still a little weird. There was a time when he was supposed to be another housemate, and now he’s a booty call who went pro.

Still, there are some things that will always ring familiar. The smell of a stale gear thrown everywhere. Sticky September heat clinging to his skin. Zach, sprawled belly-down over blue sheets.

“Hey,” Dylan says, not bothering to fight the smile. He has no clue where Niko is, couldn’t care less after Zach looks over one round shoulder, broad face open. Dylan doesn’t quite remember deciding to kick off his shoes and slide in beside Zach, but he doesn’t regret it once he’s there.

“Don’t touch me, I’m hot,” Zach groans, but he rocks closer when Dylan wraps an arm around his middle and slides his hand under Zach’s shirt. He makes a fist over Zach’s belly button, then spreads his fingernails outward, just to feel Zach squirm against him. It’s worth the heel to the shin.

“I do have that effect on people,” Dylan agrees, leaning in and tucking his face into Zach’s neck. Mostly, he smells like shampoo and sweat and Mrs. Werenski’s laundry detergent, but it still eases the tug in Dylan’s gut that’s been saying _gotta go see Zach, need to see Zach today_ since he woke up.

It’s Zach who gets impatient first, nudging Dylan’s head up until their mouths can meet, chapped lips and wet tongues. Dylan sighs and lets Zach deepen the kiss, lick at his teeth. They’d agreed, in a roundabout, awkward way, that they wouldn’t question what happens when the other isn’t around, but, god, they’re still so desperate for it when they get back together.

The need to breathe eventually breaks them apart, but they don’t go far. Dylan’s still mouthing at Zach’s neck when he asks, “Did you switch toothpastes?”

“What?” Dylan responds, because _what?_ In all honesty, Dylan had forgotten to freshen up before driving out here, but he’s not about to own up to that.

“It’s nice,” Zach says defensively before deciding that their break was over and pulling Dylan’s head back. And Dylan’s totally down, except—

“Wait wait wait, dude,” Dylan says, pulling back. “I did actually come here for a reason. Like, other than hooking up with you.”

Zach doesn’t look super impressed with that news, but his fingers’ loosen in Dylan’s hair before sliding down and looping behind his neck. He puts on his listening-but-impatient face. 

Dylan breathes in twice, throat stuck. It still feels unreal, like it’s so delicate that saying it outloud will make it disappear. But, well, there’s not backing out now, for him or them. “I’m up,” he finally says. “For real. I’m playing in Detroit this season.”

He has a second to watch the news hit him, and then he’s being tackled. Zach’s screaming in his ear, knees bouncing, excited fists, borderline painful kisses _._ It’s near paralyzing, now nervous Dylan is, how _happy,_ and having Zach on top of him like this tips the scale.

“Holy shit, I’m so fucking proud of you. You’re playing for the _Red Wings,”_ Zach says as he leans back, face red and grinning. “Wait, does that mean—”

Zach looks down to where his ass is planted on Dylan’s pelvis, then back at Dylan, eyes wide. Dylan forces himself to hold his smile and dips his chin once.

“Holy shit,” Zach repeats, scrambling off of Dylan to sit at the end of the bed. It’s not quite the reaction Dylan was hoping for, but close to what he expected.

Zach’s staring at the zipper of Dylan’s pants, like he’s waiting for answers to rise from its depths. As much could be arranged. Dylan reaches down to fiddle with the button, tugging the hem just a bit. “Do you wanna see it?”

Zach nods slowly. His face is still frozen, leaving no hints to how he’s feeling, but does his fair share at tugging Dylan’s pants off his legs. When Dylan spreads his legs, Zach knees up to settle between them. The front of Dylan’s boxers are damp from earlier, making them cling to him. It makes the small, erratic movement below them even more obvious. “Jesus,” Zach whispers. The air’s heavy between them, and Dylan feels on display, shy about it in a way he hasn’t been in years. 

Zach runs his hands softly up Dylan’s thighs, and they smile shakily at each other for a fraction of a second before looking back to Dylan’s squirming boxers. Dylan breathes out, then shoves the elastic down his thighs.

There, where Dylan’s dick used to be, is a pink, jolly-rancher-slick tentacle.

With a solid frame of reference and a bit of squinting, one might be able to see some similarities between the tentacle and the dick it replaced: the remnants of a flared head, a few familiar looking veins, a shade hinting at that signature Larkin flush.

Mostly, it’s completely alien: glossy, bright, a little longer than it was before but tapering quickly towards the tip. It _moves,_ too, coiling and sliding against Dylan’s thighs and stomach.

“Can you, like, stop moving?” Zach asks after a few seconds of watching it flop around.

“Not really. I don’t— it’s only been a couple days,” Dylan mumbles. He reaches down to cover himself, or at least give it something to hold onto. The growing pains had been foul, gut-deep and intimate, but he feels put together now. Whole. Dedicated to the team, in mind and body.

The tentacle wraps around his wrist, curling between his fingers,comforting and content.

There’s an awkward moment of silence that stretches on, then Zach says, “Dude, it looks _a lot_ like—”

“Don’t.” 

“I’m just saying, that color—”

“Yeah, I know, okay? You don’t have to _say_ anything,” Dylan snaps, face burning as he gently frees his hand and moves to yank his boxers back up, feeling stupid and insecure. Dylan can’t really blame Zach; he's not sure how he would’ve responded if it’d been Zach who showed up without a dick. Still, he’d hoped for more than this. More than blank staring, still hands on the outsides of his knees. 

Dylan’s surprised when he meets resistance. “Wait,” Zach says, fingers curled around the the legs of his boxers. He jerks forward and presses a quick, dry kiss against Dylan’s mouth, then sits back just as fast. He doesn’t go far, close enough that Dylan can see the brown in his eyes and feel his breath when he says, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have made it weird. It’s just— does it feel like…”

Zach trails off, and Dylan huffs a short laugh. “Why don’t you just touch it yourself?” Dylan says, mostly expecting Zach to balk and let Dylan tuck himself for another day. It’s a little disappointing—okay, a lot disappointing, more than Dylan could have expected—but he truly did miss Zach. They can go downstairs, hang with the boys, and it'd be a night well spent. Maybe later, they could come back up here and Dylan would skip straight to rolling over.

Dylan shouldn’t be surprised when the challenge settles in Zach's face. He knees up further between Dylan’s legs, cornering him up against the wall at the end of Zach’s bed. He’s too non-threatening for Dylan to consider it _looming,_ per se, but, well. The guy has twenty pounds of muscle on him. Dylan can appreciate that.

Zach wraps a hand around Dylan’s jaw and leans in to kiss him, slowly, before butting their foreheads together. He’s hesitating, immobile and breathing hard. “You don’t have to if you don’t wanna,” Dylan offers, squeezing reassuringly on Zach’s arms. He doesn’t want Zach to feel obligated, or like this is some game of tentacle chicken.

Zach grunts a negative, and the heat in his eyes keeps Dylan from saying anything else. The skin still looks a little raw where the tentacle is spouting out of Dylan, and Zach softly runs a finger across the base gingerly before offering his hand up. The first touch is steady, confident, and the tentacle twines around Zach’s hand just as surely, winding around his palm and nosing at his fingers.

Dylan inhales and watches Zach watch his hand. 

“You’re so wet,” Zach breathes, twisting his hand gingerly. 

“Can you drop that?” Dylan says, but he can’t quite stir up true annoyance when Zach sounds so _in awe._

“It’s true,” Zach argues, and then he moves his hand again, trying to wrap his hand around the tentacle, squeezing—

“Oh, no no no, don’t,” Dylan yelps, snapping his knees closed around Zach’s torso, a tremor running through him. Zach’s hand snaps open and away from where Dylan’s contracting, shivering.

“Shit, sorry,” Zach says, curling in on himself a little.

Dylan rolls his shoulders, shakes it off. “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” _surprised you, kept you in the dark, come here when I barely know what’s going on._ Dylan shakes his head, trying to clear it. “It’s, ah, kinda different than it was before.”

“What, like, more sensitive?” Zach asks. Dylan figures the way he’s watching it unfurl again is a good sign.

Dylan shrugs again. There are a lot of things different. It feels _different,_ on a fundamental level. What he wants, what he needs has changed. Hands can’t make him come anymore; they feel nice, but in the same way a hand in his hair feels nice. Even the fleshlight Zach bought him takes forever. It’s never _deep_ enough. He’ll go for three hours and still not be satisfied.

On top of all that, like Zach said, he gets _really_ wet.

But that’s a lot to unload of a guy. “It doesn’t like being manhandled,” Dylan says, instead.

Zach snorts and says, “What, you make the big show, now you’re the kinda guy who talks about his dick in third person?”

Dylan smiles, somewhere between forced and relieved. It does seem weird, when Zach puts it like that.

Zach smiles back comfortingly before looking down into his lap, at his hand. “It evaporates quick,” he says, out of nowhere.

“Huh? What does?" 

“The juice or whatever.” Dylan wrinkles his nose at the terminology, then jerks back when Zach shoves his hand in his face. Dylan just barely makes out the matte tracks covering most of Zach’s hand before they disappear completely, evenly and without a trace. 

That is not a problem Dylan or his sheets have encountered before. It’s pretty much the exact opposite, in fact. A fluke, maybe? “Huh. I mean, it shouldn’t, but I’m not, like, _sure_ it’s done developing or whatever. It’s pretty fresh, you know? Still growing.”  

“Heard that one before.”

At that, Dylan makes a show of trying to roll off the bed, and Zach has wrestles him back down. They’re both laughing when Zach asks, “Hey, can I… again?” His hand is rubbing Dylan’s hip, and the tip of the tentacle is already trying to wrap around his wrist again. _Clingy._  

“Yeah, ‘course,” Dylan says, in case that wasn’t a clear enough invitation.

Zach’s hand gets tangled up again, and they go back to making out for awhile. It's good, but they’re holding themselves awkwardly, not touching as much as usual. Dylan’s not sure where to put his hands. He’s not sure if Zach is hard or if he’s into this at all or if he's just accommodating. His stomach hurts, a sore pull.

Eventually, Zach pulls himself free from the tentacle's grasp again. Dylan figures that’s the end of it, they’ll tuck themselves in and go stuff themselves at Toarmina’s or something. Instead, Zach asks, “Do you mind if I try something?”

“Uh, no? Go ahead.” Dylan holds his breath as Zach works off his shorts and briefs, revealing his half hard dick. Zach jerks himself twice, foreskin rolling over the head, before reaching for Dylan’s hip and pulling him closer. “Oh,” Dylan says, dumb.

It takes some guidance, but they get Dylan’s tentacle peppermint-striped around Zach’s dick. Dylan can’t look away at first, hypnotized by the sight of his tentacle working Zach over, nudging under Zach’s foreskin, before Zach yanks his mouth up to meet his.

They’re pressed head to toe now, Zach clinging onto Dylan, hips twitching into the tentacle’s grasp, and, yeah, Dylan can get into this.

He’s wondering how much it’s going to take to make _Zach_ come when Zach breaks off, looks him straight in the eye, and reaches down to wrap a hand around them. He makes one long, gentle pull, getting his hand all wet, before bringing it up to his mouth.

Dylan has always loved Zach cleaning up their hands, stomachs, faces, _whatever._ That much apparently hasn’t changed. The sight still hits him like a punch to the gut.

“Is it good?” Dylan asks, voice catching in his throat. It feels like a very important question.

Zach blinks, slowly, before nodding, fingers still in his mouth. Dylan holds himself very still, barely breathing, as he watches Zach work over the rest of his hand. His face is flushed, too, even though he usually isn’t one to blush. It’s a good look on him.

Zach finishes sucking on his pinkie, then says, “‘s sweet.”

He shoves his hand back down. Dylan is _soaked_ where he’s wrapped around Zach, can feel it dripping between them, and watching Zach lick at his glistening hand makes Dylan feel like he’s _burning_.

“That’s so fucking hot, babe,” Dylan whispers, voice gone. He wraps a hand around Zach’s wrist, cradles the back of his head, just to hold onto him.

Zach groans. “It’s so fucking good. Makes my mouth feels weird,” Zach sighs, mouth soft on the ball of his thumb. “Like pop rocks.” Then Dylan has to find out how Zach’s mouth tastes for himself. He doesn’t think he has anything to do with it, can’t taste anything but Zach, but fuck if he doesn’t love it. Dylan could spend hours like this, except—  

Dylan breaks off to say, “Isn’t that a symptom for something?”

Zach doesn’t seem to have the same concern. He looks dazed, fucked out even though they haven’t done much of anything. “I wanna have you in me. Do you think— can I put it in my mouth? Can I suck you off like this? Please? Would that work?”

Dylan’s ears are ringing, just a little bit. He thinks that, if he was still built like that, he would have just shot off right then and there. “Oh my god,” he says weakly. 

Zach drops his head and kisses the spot where Dylan’s neck and shoulder meet, sets his teeth there for second. “It’s okay if you don’t wanna,” Zach says mournfully.

 _“I want you to,”_ Dylan says. Dylan wants to— he doesn’t even know what he wants to do, wants to be buried in Zach, wants to fill him up, wants him _drunk_ on it. He’s half crazy from the idea, can’t help but get his hands in Zach’s hair and drag his face back up. Dylan can barely stop tasting him long enough to get out, “Christ. Yes. Are you sure?”

Zach moans deep in his throat, nods his head, then pulls back completely. Dylan has an almost overwhelming urge to yank him back in place before Zach says, “Shit, I need to tell Niko to fuck off.”

Reasonable enough, Dylan supposes.

Zach kisses Dylan one more time as an apology before rolling back and grabbing his phone from where it was stashed under his pillow.

The break gives Dylan a moment to pull himself together. Rationally, there is no reason to be this messed up. Sure, he hasn't hooked up with anyone since his dick started switching over, and, yeah, okay, he’s a little pent up, but it’s not like this is his first time getting head _ever,_ fuck.

At least Zach seems just as weirdly into it. And still—

Dylan gives Zach a solid look over, partially because he’s just nice to look at, but also because he’s still a little worried from earlier. Zach’s face isn’t unusually red, no hives. He looks like he’s breathing fine. He gets briefly distracted watching Zach’s back rise and fall, in the way his shirt clings to him. Dylan truly does appreciate how big Zach’s gotten. He’s so sturdy. _Developmentally mature._  

His tentacle thrashes frantically in his lap. Dylan sympathizes.

Then Zach makes an audible slurping noise and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks more bothered by whatever Niko’s texting him than by the fact he just got caught drooling on himself.

Dylan digs his pants out of the crack between the bed and wall, then gets his phone out of his pocket. He hesitates over who to text before remembering a warm hand on his shoulder, a _Don’t hesitate to call,_ and sends to Zetterberg _(jesus),_ **Can people be allergic to transformation stuff?**

“Dyl?” Zach says, like Dylan was the one holding things up.

Zach’s mouth is so red.

Fuck it, Dylan thinks. Zach’s good. He’s so fucking good, Dylan’s about to make him the best he’s ever _been._

The pants and the phone get tossed aside, forgotten.

Dylan rubs his thumb across Zach’s bottom lip. Zach smiles against it. Then he shoves Dylan back onto the bed and crawls on top of him. They kiss, with more teeth and spit than is strictly necessary, before Zach starts biting his way down Dylan’s neck. He rucks up Dylan’s shirt to his armpits and takes a few seconds to mouth at Dylan’s nipples, kiss his sternum, before starting back down again. Dylan is practically twitching with anticipation, barely holding himself together as Zach’s lips hit his hipbone—

“Don’t fucking slap me with your dick!” Zach says, jerking back, face annoyed.

“I didn’t!” Dylan says. He tries to not stare at the wet stripe down Zach’s cheek, since he feels that it would undermine the indignity of the statement.

“Oh, so, what, it just has a mind of its own?” Zach says, sarcastic, as he cages the tentacle against Dylan’s stomach. Dylan squirms uncomfortably.

“Well, I told you I couldn’t control it, so if that’s the explanation that makes you happy, sure.” Mostly, Dylan just wants to push Zach’s hand away and get his head back down. He wants be in Zach so bad he’s dizzy from it, and having Zach hesitate now, giving him dirty looks as he leans down to bite at Dylan’s thigh in retaliation, is practically killing him. 

It’s a full-body relief when Zach finally licks at the base of his tentacle.

Zach groans at it, too, and loosens his hold on the rest of Dylan's tentacle. It takes practically no time before he’s licking, mouthing at it like he’s a man dying of thirst. He sounds like one, too, making desperate moans that vibrate through Dylan.

Dylan gets his elbows under him somehow, because he needs to see this.

It looks beyond obscene. It looks— Dylan knows, fundamentally, that the tentacle is a part of him now, but between Zach’s lips, it looks _inhuman,_ vulgar, far beyond the worst-best thing Dylan could imagine. And Zach has it in his mouth. He’s letting it caress his face. His flushed, slack, wet face. 

That should be enough. Dylan loves Zach for being willing to go this far. Except.

Dylan reaches down to run a hand over the side of Zach’s face. He barely responds. “Baby, do you think you could maybe…” Even as he’s asking, the tentacle is curling back on itself and twisting into Zach’s mouth. For a second, Dylan worries that this will be a step too far, but then Zach takes it with a shuddery sigh, like he wants it just as bad.  

And, _fuck,_ does it feel good.

Zach’s nose is pressed against the mess on Dylan’s belly in seconds, holding Dylan's tentacle deep in his mouth. His hands are locked on Dylan’s hips, like he wants it to be there.

Dylan feels like he’s boiling inside, melting, and pouring it all into Zach. And Zach is trying so hard to take it all, throat working constantly, like eventually he’ll be able to suck Dylan dry. Dylan’s not sure it’s possible. He feels like he could keep Zach right here, like this, forever. He doesn't think Zach would mind much either. He's so good at this.

Dylan runs his fingers around Zach’s stretched open mouth, rubbing in what Zach doesn't manage to swallow. It’s the least he can do.

Dylan doesn’t notice Zach thrusting into the bed, legs spread, until his breath starts to catch. Zach stills, but the tentacle does, so it’s not long before Zach coughs, gags, and reluctantly pulls off. He whines, frustrated, and buries his face in Dylan’s lap. Dylan pets his hair. The tentacle keeps sliding across his face, poking at clenched teeth, as Zach shakes through an orgasm. 

Dylan gives him a moment to breathe, flicking the tentacle away from Zach’s ear or nose intermittently.

“Did you come?” Zach asks eventually. His voice isn’t as messed up as it usually is after he deepthroats. A bit more watery. Dylan could get used to it.

The question makes him think. He feels good, warm and sensitized in the best ways. Zach got his. There’s still… _something,_ but Dylan’s starting to think it’s an itch too deep to scratch. He would be fine with ending now. “Yeah,” he says.

“Oh. Okay.”

_“Oh?”_

“I was just wondering. If you’re not too tired or anything.” He flops an arm up and starts twirling the tentacle around his fingers, the same way some people play with their hair. Dylan can’t decide if it’s cute or not.

“Zach. Do you want something?”

“Well, I kinda want you to fuck me. For real. In my ass.” And then Zach just glances up, all casual.

Dylan swallows once, hard.

“… Dylan? Are you okay?”

Dylan is not okay. He has possibly never been _less_ okay.

“I don’t know if I can. It’s just— I’m just… not very solid? And I don’t know if it’ll still work that way. Right now,” Dylan forces out, even though denying Zach this is causing him actual, physical pain.

Zach groans and says, “That’s fine, won’t be the first time you limp-dicked on me.” He’s joking, Dylan’s fairly sure he’s mostly joking, but the next breath he sucks in is still rickety and sore. 

“I’m sorry,” Dylan says, voice high and wavering. Some distant, quarantined part of him knows this is an overreaction; Zach’s right, he _has_ been too tired for another round before, and it hadn’t been the end of the world then. Now, though, it feels like betrayal and failure and impotence all rolled together, worse than he’d ever felt before.

It’s worse when Zach rests a gentle hand on the rapid rise-and-fall of Dylan’s chest. Dylan squeezes his eyes closed, doesn’t want to see Zach’s face, then regrets it when the corners overflow. Zach wipes at them before they can even fall and says, “Oh, hey, come on, it isn’t that big a deal. I’m sorry.”

It is, and Dylan says as much.

Zach’s quiet for a moment, rubbing Dylan’s neck and shoulders and chest, before saying, “You do want to?”

Dylan nods, frantically.

“Okay. So you just gotta prep really good first, right? Open me up until I'm wide enough that you can just slide in. You could fill me up like that. Could stay really deep in me. That would still be good, right?” Zach sounds like he thinks it would be good, which is enough to focus Dylan.

The thing is, Dylan has seen some shit now that's he's been part of an actual NHL locker room. He knows what his tentacle could be, what it’s going to be. He wants to _fuck_ Zach, and what he’s working with right now feels… inadequate, in comparison. A fraction of what it should be.

But Zach does not know that, and Dylan is more than willing to give him what he is asking for.

Dylan sits up in rush, rubs his hands over his face. He still feels a little ridiculous, but he has a new goal now. “Okay, yeah,” he says. “Are you sure you wanna?”

“Yes. Are _you_ sure?”

Dylan shoves Zach into the bed and climbs over him to retrieve the mostly new bottle of lube from his end table. He moves off him to put him in position, but is even more turned on watching Zach rearrange himself belly down on the bed, legs spread.

“Tilt your hips up,” Dylan says, and Zach does, and Dylan loves him, honestly. Dylan loves his _ass._ They’re hockey players, they pretty much all have great asses, but there’s something about having one spread out in front of you that just gets to a guy. Dylan runs a dry thumb against Zach’s hole, presses at it. Zach is relaxed—not loose, not yet—and suddenly Dylan thinks of some almost forgotten highlight reel, the announcer screaming _like a hot knife through butter!_

Dylan wants to be diligent warming Zach up, but it’s just so hard when Zach's taking it so _easy._ Dylan spreads his fingers open and Zach sighs. A rushed thrust is met with an arched back. Dylan goes up to three fingers, and they all slide right in. He's considering sneaking in a fourth when Zach says, “Dylan." 

Dylan freezes and blushes guiltily. Instead of saying anything about an errant pinkie, Zach rolls his hips on Dylan’s hand and says, “I want it now.”

Dylan trembles, and pulls his fingers free. He grabs onto the meat of Zach’s ass, holds him open, can’t help but admire his handiwork, how open Zach is, before digging his fingers in hard, spreading Zach just that extra bit farther, and pushing his hips forward. It’s almost funny watching his tentacle lead the way, like it knows there’s something waiting for it. It lingers at the rim, only for a second, then Dylan’s hips twitch, and then—

It’s like a rope tied around Dylan is suddenly yanked forward. He practically falls into Zach, hips pressed up against his ass before Dylan can even consider going slow. Once he’s buried, he can’t convince himself to leave, his thrusts barely more than pathetic attempts to get deeper. Dylan feels like he’s _pulsating_ in Zach, Dylan doesn’t even know, fuck, it feels so good. The slick, juices, whatever it is, feels like it’s being _pumped_ out of him. 

They’re both making so much noise, but Dylan doesn’t care, doesn’t care about anything but staying inside of Zach.

The cramp starts as a small twist low in his gut, deep and unfamiliar but unconcerning. It takes a few minutes for it to start making Dylan’s shoulders hunch, longer still for Dylan to spare it an actual thought, but he can’t stop, can’t stop, even as the cramp sharpens, an acute pain in his center that draws a high-pitched whine out of him—

Then it _pops_ and moves through him, painless but noticeable, a jawbreaker moving straight through to his—

And then he’s distracted by Zach shaking, tightening, his arm is underneath himself, and, oh, Dylan should’ve done that. Dylan _loves_ Zach. He wants to take care of his everything forever.

“You okay?” Dylan asks, words feeling foreign on his tongue.

“Don’t stop,” Zach sobs, and Dylan doesn’t. He wouldn’t dream of it.

The cramps start and stop two more times. Zach comes both times, and then some. There’s a building pressure in Dylan that follows the third, one that makes him twist over Zach and hold on. He reaches a hand down to wrap around Zach’s cock again. It’s soft, but he doesn’t let go until Zach’s hand grabs onto his wrist hard.

 _“Dylan,”_ Zach says, and drags their hands up over his stomach. It’s tight—it’s always tight, he has abs for days—but now there’s a _slope_ , not the normal concave it should be in this position, like Dylan filled Zach up so good he's swollen from it.

“Oh, Zach,” Dylan says as he curls closer, holds him tighter, and shakes and shakes and shakes. “‘M so proud.”

 

~~~

 

The handle clicking open wakes Dylan up and has him rolling over on top of Zach, with an almost foreign amount of aggression boiling in his stomach. The door only opens a few inches before sometimes small and bright gets lobbed into the room, blaring, _“Hanging ‘round, downtown by myself—”_ before the door gets slammed behind it.

Dylan eases the rest of the way off Zach and picks Niko’s ancient iPod off the floor. The screen’s shattered past safe usage, and Dylan's careful as he presses the pause button. He tosses it onto Niko’s bed, vindictively hoping a few more chucks fall out.

The bomb had its intended consequence, though, and has Zach stirring awake. His eyes are glassy when they creak open and meet Dylan’s. “Wha’z goin’ on?” Zach asks, rubbing his mouth against his arm.

“Nothing. Niko’s just… don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep,” Dylan says. He doesn’t mean for it to be a command, but Zach’s eyes close and he’s asleep a second later. Having the room dark and quiet again with Zach back asleep undoes the aggravation building in Dylan's chest. Past the room's window, night has settled in deep and dark outside.

Suddenly, Dylan feels a little bad. This isn’t the first time Dylan and Zach have lost track of time in bed, but usually there isn’t another roommate to consider. They have class in the morning, and Dylan has to drive back to Detroit. It’s a bit of a gut-punch when Dylan picks up his phone and realizes it’s nearly two in the morning. He'd gotten there at, what, four in the afternoon?

He has a bunch of missed messages, usual clutter from group texts, some from new teammates, and fewer still from his mom. The bulk are from Niko, with increasingly passive aggressive updates on his location and deteriorating wellbeing. Dylan sends, **Figures you couldn’t find someone who’d want to share a bed with your gigantic ass** to him, figuring he’ll take it as the invitation it is, and orders him a pizza as an apology. Then he goes through everything else, which is mostly getting rid of notifications and a few apologies over dinner plans. The texts from Hank are a little a strange, though. He only barely remembers texting him earlier—he isn't really concerned about Zach being sick anymore—but the response had been quick.

 

> **What do you mean? You haven’t mentioned any bad reactions**
> 
> **Dylan are you having sex with someone?**
> 
> **Call me as soon as you can. Don’t worry about the time.**

 

Dylan is embarrassed that he’d sent anything in the first place. Zach and him had worked it out in the end, and the prospect of having to go through Sex Ed: Tentacle Edition for no reason wasn’t super appealing. Sure, most people have more time to prepare themselves for their new appendage than Dylan had, but it'd been fine. _Mind-numbingly great,_ even. Hadn't it been?

Dylan looks at Zach, how he’s sleeping like the dead again. The sex had been fantastic, but he'd be kidding himself if he pretended like there hadn't been something off, in hindsight. Very off.

He’d hate himself if he’d inadvertently hurt Zach. And, well, it’s probably a bit early to be blowing off his captain’s orders.

Dylan fiddles with the room's fans, cranking them up and directing them away from the window, douses the room the room in Febreze, and, after one last look back at Zach, goes to make a call in the bathroom.

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: The Red Wings give Dylan a tentacle, who of course tries it out on Zach immediately. It's not fully formed and Dylan is uninformed on all its functionalities. It whammies them both with aphrodisiacs and ends up putting some eggs in Zach. Despite frequent reaffirmations, the level of consent is lowered by Dylan's ignorance and the aphrodisiacs.
> 
> You can find me on the [porn sideblog.](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com)


End file.
